


push/pull

by twnkwlf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Espionage, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Honeymoon, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twnkwlf/pseuds/twnkwlf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(ON HIATUS...SORRY) </p><p>“Wait-- you said-- <i>you’re</i> her replacement?” </p><p>“I’ll be going under with the same cover you drafted in your profile. We’re newlyweds. Everything from your mission plan with Agent Martin still applies.” </p><p>“Everything still applies except <i> you’re a dude.</i>” </p><p>Hale just turns his head sharply in Stiles’ direction, nostrils slightly flared and eyes hard. </p><p>“Are you going to be professional about this?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I would finish my other WIP before starting a new behemoth, but finals are over and I have more free time than I know what to do with. SO NEW STORIES ARE JUST GONNA HAPPEN I GUESS. Anyway, I prompted this on tumblr a while ago-- "spies have to be fake married on a fake honeymoon." I'm aiming for four chapters, but it might be more or less at this point since I'm still building this thing up. Expect new chapters soon! The title is from Purity Ring's new song and you should listen to it because it is 100% a sterek jam. 
> 
> I will post triggery things in the end notes for the following chapters. By nature, there's some strange consent-y issues going on here because the characters are "fake married," and are forced to engage in acts and behavior because of their positions. So keep that in mind!
> 
> I try my best, but all mistakes are mine. [Come hang out with me on tumblr.](http://twinkwolf.tumblr.com/)

It really amazes him sometimes that Scott still knows nothing after all these years. Stiles can slip away from his real life to come here, to Scott’s quiet suburban home and drink beer, watch football, play with the baby, as if he’s the same person he was in high school. Stiles doesn’t raise any red flags in Beacon Hills and it’s a testament to how deep the lie runs now. Scott knows nothing, just like the Sheriff knows nothing, just like no one knows anything about Stiles. Not really.

He missed Willa’s birthday last week because he’s been underground in a Swiss opium den for most of the month, and now he’s home to celebrate his goddaughter turning one year old, even though it feels like she was born just two weeks ago. Stiles’ line of work really messes with one’s sense of time.

Be that as it may, WIlla is old enough to hold her own head up and drag herself around the floor, but she still likes playing with the wrapping paper more than the miniature baby buggie he got her. He spent $400 at Toys-R-Us on various high-end baby junk to make up for all the lost time. Scott thinks he’s been at a security conference in Maine.

“Kira’s pregnant again,” he tells Stiles while they’re lounging on the couch.

Willa bounces in his lap. She’s small with black hair and has bright new teeth that chew on Stiles’ fingers. All of Scott’s shirts are stained with baby drool and imprinted with little bite marks now. Covering her ears for a moment, Stiles says,

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“She went to the doctor and everything, man.” Scott sighs, cracking his second beer. “I don’t think she wants to have it. I mean...it’s so soon. Shoulda been more careful.”

Stiles is lacking in advice because he has no experience with the day-to-day problems of married life. He has no idea what the real estate market is like Northern Cali. He doesn’t know how to change a diaper. He wouldn’t know what to do if his wife became pregnant so soon after having their first baby. He can shoot a moving target from half a kilometer away, slice the carotid artery with a pair of nail clippers, move unmarked suitcases through airport security in Washington, but he can’t organize a backyard barbeque to save his life.

They watch the sports highlights all afternoon and talk about the pros and cons of having two infants under one roof. Scott looks tired, but as always, he’s smiling through it. He lets off a little too much steam, drinks a little too much beer, and falls asleep on the couch as the sun starts to slip down the horizon. Kira comes home from work while Stiles is warming up mashed carrots for Willa in the kitchen.  

“You couldn’t have cut him off? It’s a Wednesday night,” Kira says through a laugh when she comes into the living space. She sounds more amused than pissed off, which he’s thankful for. She lets them have their fun when Stiles comes for visits because they are so few and far between.

“I can’t say no to him-- look at that face,” he tells her while they maneuver his slack body into bed. Drawing the sheets up around him, Stiles takes a second to appreciate Scott’s mouth agape, and the snores that were a soundtrack to a million childhood sleepovers. It might be a while until he sees Scott next. And every time he leaves for one of his “trips”, it might be the last time he sees Scott, really. For good measure, be bends down to kiss Scott’s forehead. “Later, buddy,” he whispers.

Kira walks him outside to the summer evening that’s slipping fast into night. The air is blue and full of July mosquitoes. On her hip, Willa, lays her head against her mother’s chest, sleepy and sated, worn out from Stiles’ tickle attacks.

“How long are you in town for?” she asks.

“I’m flying out tonight.”  

He tells her that it’s just another mundane trip for his client. He tells everyone that he’s in private security, working for a company that supplies bodyguards and security task groups for big-name corporate moguls and celebrities. It gives him a false confidentiality clause so that he doesn’t have to embellish on the details of his trips. It gives him an excuse for all the international travel. It can explain why he carries a gun. It’s such a tenuous lie that sometimes Stiles thinks it’s unraveling as he speaks.

He kisses Willa on the cheek over and over until she giggles. He gives Kira a long and warm hug goodbye when he goes. They aren’t very close because he started his “private security” around the time Scott started dating her. He loves her, though. There were a few months after Allison died when Stiles wasn’t sure if Scott would even make it, and then Kira swept in, all smiles and comic books.Their domestic bliss has been a good distraction for Scott. He tends not to ask many questions about Stiles’ life and work when he’s so wrapped up in her.

Instead of driving, Stiles takes the Greyhound back to San Francisco. It’s a pre-op ritual at this point, taking buses and trains to his destinations. Sitting among the strangers in the public space allows him erase himself for a few hours. There’s something freeing about being in public transit-- no one knows who he is. He can be different here. He can make up a persona here without the watchful eyes of his family and childhood friends. He’s good at burying Stiles Stilinski underneath the layers. Undercover assignments require that process.

The sun has completely set by the time he gets to the rendezvous point where he’s to meet Lydia. It’s an empty garage underneath a closed movie theatre and a lone black car sits under the fluorescents in the third parking spot of Row E.

Except, when he opens the door, it’s not Lydia sitting impatiently in the driver’s seat.

It’s Derek Hale. His hand goes immediately to his hip, where the gun sits.

“Where’s Martin?”

“Get in the car and I’ll brief you.”

Stiles checks his blind spots before he does. He doesn’t spot any other suspicious vehicles, but he doesn’t have enough time to ensure that they aren’t being watched. His stomach churns uncomfortably, but he swallows it down.

“Seriously, where the hell is Martin? What’s going on?” he says as soon as the door closes. He feels sealed in, anxious that Lydia isn’t here. It’s not usual for plans to change suddenly and if something got screwed up in the logistics, he’s sure Lydia would have contacted him by now. It’s unusual for Stiles’ colleagues to not live up to their word. It’s unusual  in the kind of operations Stiles runs.

“She’s been reassigned.”

Agent Hale has a perpetual five-o’clock shadow and dark eyes that demand to make contact. He wears suits the color of black ash. Stiles has seen him at every official debriefing and every intel meeting since he joined up and he’s never said a word to anyone outside of an intelligence presentation. He’s higher up than him. Much higher up. He’s so high up that the only possible reason for him being here is that he’s about to sever Stiles’ ties with the agency.

He imagines Hale reaching into his Armani jacket pocket and pulling out a semi-automatic with a silencer fastened to the end. He imagines him saying something like, _Sorry, kid, you know too much_ , or _you’re a liability_ which is a cliche that he’s pulled from a million different spy movies, but very well be the reality of the situation. To national security, Stiles is one of the biggest liabilities there is.

“Are you here to kill me?” he asks on a whim.

Hale only lifts one of his eyebrows in response.

“Sorry. You know… Human Resources hasn’t really gotten around to explaining the severance package yet.”

“You aren’t being terminated.”

Stiles won’t deny the sense of relief that floods him. “So what is this? Am I under review?”

“No.”

“But my operation has been cancelled?”

Hale reaches over him to the glove compartment and pulls out a file that lands harshly in Stiles’ lap.

“Martin has been reassigned to the Dubai conflict instead.” Hale pulls on his sleeve a bit, straightening out his shirt. It’s a nervous gesture and it makes Stiles 1000% more worried about what he’s going to say. “Her translations skills were needed, and I’m sure you’re aware that Dubai is classified much higher than your operation. It was a matter of priority.” Stiles notes the subtle criticism, the slight condescension of hisoperation,  but he only takes a half second to dwell on it before Hale says, “I’m replacing Martin’s cover for the Argent Operation.”

The Argent Operation-- or as Stiles likes to call it-- _The Honeymoon Operation_ has been damn uphill battle of a mission. It’s his baby. It’s his magnum opus. It’s taken two years of careful planning and investigation and ass kissing to get it off the ground with his superiors. His superiors like Hale.

According to the intel that Stiles has literally killed for, Kate Argent will be at the Grand Velas Resort in Riviera Maya awaiting a business transaction this week and this week only. When she leaves, she’ll be three million dollars richer and will undoubtedly fall off the grid so far that they’ll never find her again. They aren’t sure what contraband she’s moving yet, but it’s in the weapons field, and it’s worth seven figures and countless lives. Stiles is going to find the missing piece of the puzzle in the ten year investigation into Kate Argent. The missing piece is going to be at this resort, starting tomorrow. They’ll finally be able to take her out. It’s a guaranteed promotion if he pulls it off, which he was sure he could do, because he has Agent Martin as a partner. He has a flawless cover: He has a whole plan.

Lydia and Stiles were meant to go under as newlyweds on their honeymoon at the same resort. It’s taken weeks to carefully assemble the roles they’re playing-- happy, young, and rich, looking to make friends with some of the other hotel guests, preying on that sense of vacationer camradere. It would be a quick isolation move, and then they’d take her in. Or take her out, depending on how it all goes down.

Without Lydia, Stiles doesn’t understand how he’s meant to do this. Travelling alone to a five star resort will raise Argent’s red flags. He quirks his head at Agent Hale like a confused dog.

“Wait-- you said-- _you’re_ her replacement?”

“I’ll be going under with the same cover you drafted in your profile. We’re newlyweds. Everything from your mission plan with Agent Martin still applies.”

“Everything still applies except _you’re a dude_.”

Hale just turns his head sharply in Stiles’s direction, nostrils slightly flared and eyes hard.

“Are you going to be professional about this?”

Stiles looks ahead at the empty car park, trying to piece it all together in his head. He is a professional, and Hale is his superior, and this is Kate Argent they're talking about. It all seems like an elaborate joke, but he can tell it’s serious by the hardness set in Hale’s jaw.  

"Of course," he tells Hale, taking a moment to smooth himself out, pull his demeanor back in.

Hale tells him to study the updated cover file and to be at the rendezvous point tomorrow so they can catch their flight in time. He practically pushes him out of the car, reaching over to open the passenger door for Stiles.

He feels a bit like the rug has been pulled out from under him as he watches the black car peel away. He also feels a hell of a lot more nervous than he was ten minutes ago. Pre-op jitters are to be expected, but the sudden wrench in his carefully crafted plan throws him.. There’s only so much time he’s allowed to indulge in the fear before he has to _shut it the fuck down_. The mission is still a go. He can do this.

Still, a small, nagging part of him won’t shut up. It just doesn’t make sense. Hale isn’t a lackey. Hale is a behind-the-scenes man. Stiles doesn’t think he’s heard a single story about one of Hale’s operations because he’s a string puller, not a field man. He’s supposed to be the voice on the other end of communications, not the one calling into the agency. So why the fuck would he step out of his ivory tower for this mission? Argent is dangerous, a big threat, but Hale said it-- there are larger threats classified above Stiles’ mission. The whole thing seems odd and unnerving, and from his position, he can’t even question it. Hale suddenly has a monopoly on this whole operation and it leads Stiles to the inevitable conclusion that there's something bigger at play here than a simple reassignment. 

Stiles checks in at the hotel where his supplies have been dropped. There’s a suitcase filled with the clothes he’ll wear for the trip. It’s mostly swimming trunks and loose fitting tank tops that cost more than his hotel room. They’re trying to play young and wealthy. That means designer sunglasses and sharp dress shirts for romantic dinners at the resort’s high class restaurant, and even more expensive beach garb for the days they’ll spend stalking Argent in the sand. He’d envisioned Martin across from him for these executions, all dressed impeccably in fancy beach sarongs, but inevitably his mind replaces her with Hale. It’s weird to picture him by candlelight, looking anything but menacing and hard. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the guy smile.

He spends the rest of the night relearning his new partner’s cover. Their angle is the same, except Hale is to be called a different name, and has a different business resume than Martin’s cover. It’s hard to sleep that night. There’s a new degree of uncertainty in the whole plan and it all boils down to him. He’s intimidated.

He hasn’t felt intimidation from anyone in a long time, especially from someone on _his side._

 

***

 

The next day, Hale meets him at a cafe about an hour away from the airport. He has one large suitcase and is dressed in a nice shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. A quick glance under the table show that he’s wearing designer jeans. He looks strange without the standard ashy suit.

The cafe is crowded and a little loud, but the noise pollution is a bonus for them. Stiles slides into the seat across from him then maneuvers it so he’s more adjacent to Hale,  so they can talk without being overheard. From the outside, it just looks like they’re being romantic, getting close, bending their heads together to whisper sweet nothings. Try as he might, it’s difficult for him to drop his guard and put on the character. Hale seems to sense this. Slipping something toward Stiles under a napkin, he mutters,

“You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.”

Hale takes a deep breath as Stiles glances down at the napkin. Under it is a clean white gold wedding band. There’s an identical band sitting on Hale’s finger. Right, they’re meant to be husbands. Stiles slips the ring on his finger and it oddly weighs more than he thought it would.

“We aren’t going into this if you can’t maintain your cover. It’ll take the Agency five minutes to send Lahey in for replacement. Or cancel it all together.”

This sends a spark of anger through Stiles’ entire body, but he doesn’t let it show. “No one is cancelling anything. This is going to be airtight.” He’s not throwing two years of work down the drain because of a simple issue of gender and agency hierarchy. “I can play the part, alright?”

"Good. Now come here."

Hale doesn't give Stiles much opportunity to come there, because he just pulls him by the arm and promptly fits his mouth over Stiles's. Stiles doesn't pull away because he's distracted by the odd sensation of stubble against his jaw, and the even odder familiarity of it, how it runs with an undercurrent of energy that he wasn’t expecting. He even opens his mouth a little after a second. Hale pulls away first, the five points of his fingers resting over where Stiles' heart is. Stiles takes the shock of the whole thing like he takes everything else-- with a silence and a straight face. Hale eyes him up and down like he’s trying to calculate something. The first thing he says is,

"You're going to have to work on that."

"You want me to practice on my hand or something?" Stiles bites.

"I want you to look like you’re used to kissing men. When we’re at the resort, we need to be touching. You need to be able to turn and kiss me like you would with Martin. It has to be natural. ”

“Yeah-- believe it or not, I’ve worked under cover before.” He omits that he has, in fact, kissed plenty of men in his day, mostly in college, but it’s not really the point. He sounds petulant, but there’s something unbelievably frustrating about the entire thing, as if he’s suddenly been rendered an amateur. Stiles is fucking good at his job.

“Then you know that you need to break out of your comfort zone and--”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Stiles shuts him up with his mouth. He can’t necessarily close his eyes and pretend that this person is someone warm, someone he’s used to, someone who is an equal, but he can fake it. If this is what has to get done, he’ll do it. He doesn’t anticipate how normal it feels after about three seconds, how easy it is to sweep his tongue over Hale’s, to push his face closer, his whole body closer. His stomach starts to tingle pleasantly and it’s all so alien, exhilarating in a dangerous way.

Hale ends it by pulling away with a small pop. His eyes linger on Stiles’ for a few seconds before he starts clearing up the trash on the table, blatantly avoiding him. A few of the cafe patrons have started to glance toward their public display of affection with curiosity, so Stiles figures it’s time to go. As they gather their things and pull Stiles’ suitcase along with them, Hale quietly remarks,

“That was better.”

 

***

  
For all the criticism Hale has been dishing out, he is pretty sure the guy is just as unsure and tentative about this undercover op as Stiles is. They spend the hour long car ride to the airport in total silence, not even looking at each other, as if the PDA in the cafe had been a mad dream. Stiles thinks that if they continue like this, they’re definitely going to be killed in the very near future.

That whole assumption crumbles to bits as soon as they emerge into the busy atmosphere of the airport. There, Hale reaches for Stiles’ hand and it’s soft, warm, gentle, the way he tugs him along to the baggage checking as if it’s a thing he has always done. Stiles finds himself pleased, leaning into the warm bulk of Hale’s side as they have their tickets printed out.

While they’re in the boarding queue, they make small talk about fake things pertaining to the resort and their honeymoon. They’re just establishing enough hearsay and video camera footage to secure themselves in their covers, to make sure that anyone on this flight, if questioned,  could confirm what they’re making obvious-- they’re just a couple of newly married dudes on their way to a sweet honeymoon spot.  

“Rachel said she knew a guy that studied in the same bartending school where the resort trains their servers. They can juggle martinis on fire or something crazy like that,” Hale says. It’s like he’s a whole other person suddenly, and well, that’s exactly the point, but it’s still magnificent to watch.

Stiles doesn’t miss a beat. He laughs and replies, “Rachel also told you that we needed to host the rehearsal dinner at that horrible fucking bistro and look how well that turned out. These bartenders are probably going to drop a bottle of vermouth on your head.”

Throughout the commute to the resort, they meet three other couples who are headed in that direction. Stiles spends half the flight discussing his and Hale’s imaginary wedding with a young newlywed woman that’s sitting across from them in first class. He goes on a tangent about what an amazing florist they had back in San Fran.

“Oooh, what arrangements did you end up with?” The woman looks genuinely ecstatic to be talking about this stuff for over two and a half hours. Stiles will have to get used to wedding talk he figures, since the resort their staying at will no doubt be filled with honeymooners like themselves.

“We did a white orchid and vanilla flower centerpiece for the reception-- they were unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably expensive, you mean,” Hale says suddenly, not looking up from his magazine. The woman’s husband, who is also engrossed in a Sports Illustrated, snorts at this.

“Babe, your mom offered to pay for the florist and you said no.” Stiles puts a hand on his forearm. “So you’re not allowed to get snooty over the receipts.”

“The fake ones looked the exact same and they were an eighth of the price.” Hale doesn’t look up from his magazine, shaking his head.

“You’re the most delusional person I have ever met.”

“Love you, too.”

Stiles would be lying if he said the banter didn’t amuse him. Hale is unexpectedly expert at pretending to be in a relationship. He isn’t over the top with happiness and affection, not to obvious,  but that’s what makes it so uncanny. He’s still kind of grumpy and monosyllabic, but he does it all with ease, as if Stiles is a part of an old routine, as if he has a special, tailor made affection for Stiles and Stiles only. By the time they land and have their car drive them to the resort, his worries about the future of the mission have dissipated. Hale takes his hand again as the concierge presents them with their room keys and a pair of elaborate looking cocktails.

They are led up their room, and through the elevator ride, Stiles decides to nuzzle against Hale’s neck a little, wind his fingers through the designer jean belt loops. The few others in the elevator smirk knowingly, which proves they’re playing young and horny pretty well. The elevator takes them up one floor when it stops to let the others off.

The small crowd floods out, and there’s just one patron waiting to get on. Stiles heart stutters in his chest as Kate Argent herself steps into the small space with them, her hair thrown up in a loose bun, skin smelling of coconut oil and cigarette smoke. She looks cold and intimidating even wearing some kind beach cover dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. When your mark is in proximity, it’s easy to forget that you’re playing anonymous. Stiles silently panics that Hale might be unprepared for the sudden meeting.

Hale isn’t known for his undercover work, but he doesn’t give them away. They adjust themselves to look a little more reserved now that there’s a third wheel.

With Argent so close, Stiles feels the pressure of the entire thing press down on him. Hale is the first to react.

“Which floor?” he asks smoothly.

She gives them both a once-over. “Five, thanks.”

Stiles hits the button and the doors close them in.  He swears that Hale’s grip on his hand tightens by a degree, but then Argent is speaking directly to them and he can’t spend any time trying to decipher what it means.   

“Honeymooners, I’m guessing?” Her voice is different from what Stiles has heard on the surveillance footage he’s been studying. It’s richer, dripping with piqued curiosity and a bit of thinly veiled menace. “You too look like you’re ready to tear your clothes off right here. If you need the elevator, I can get off on the next floor.”

Stiles feigns a laugh, tries to look bashful while Hale scratches his neck awkwardly. He didn’t anticipate meeting Argent so soon, but they’re here now and it’s fucking game time. Hale seems to be the one playing shy, so Stiles rolls with it, makes himself the sociable one.

“I think we can hold out for the king sized memory foam,” Stiles says. After a moment of pause, he dares to ask her what he already knows. “Are you here with your family?”

She snorts a little. “God, no. Kill me before I ever take _those_ assholes on vacation.”

Kate’s floor approaches fast. As the doors open to reveal the opulent carpet of the hallway, she turns toward them. “I’m here on business,” she says with a parting smirk. While she saunters away, she throws a. “see you boys around,” behind her shoulder before the doors close.

When they’re alone again, Stiles attempts to meet Hale’s eyes. He makes the smallest inclination of his head, telling Stiles to wait until they’re out of the surveillance video range. It’s getting late at the resort and the hallways are mostly empty, save for a few doors opening and closing to put room service trays outside. All the same, they don’t drop the cover yet. As they walk toward their suite, they chat a bit about being jetlagged, about their plans for tomorrow. Stiles scans the hallway and leans against Hale impatiently as he works the card into the key slot. He pushes him forward in a way that could be perceived as excitement, but really Stiles needs to get into a private space ASAP so they can work out the details of their first encounter.

As soon as the door shuts, everything changes.

The suite is over the top, huge and lavish, laid out with bright furniture and everything they could possibly need. It’s one massive room leading out to a large balcony, complete with tanning chairs and an outdoor bar. Stiles dumps his bag at the end of the huge king sized bed as Hale moves to shut the curtains. The view overlooks the beach, where bonfires are just starting to spark below as the sun drops down the vast horizon. Stiles waits for the curtains to be shut tight before turning the lights on. Quietly, Hale says,

“We’ll scope her out tomorrow. She’s familiar with us already, so at least we have an added advantage there. It will be less awkward to approach her.”

“The equipment?”

“Taped under the sink in the bathroom.”

Stiles knows that their inside guy has been here, but they’ve left the room seemingly untouched so that housekeeping and whomever else won’t find a thing. As for the building layout, Stiles has already memorized every square inch of this elaborate resort. He’s sure that Hale has as well.

It’s been a long day, and it’s going to be a long week, so rest is in order. Not for the first time, Stiles is unsure of how to act around his partner behind closed doors.

As if reading his mind, Hale suddenly tells him, “Put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. I’ll take the sofa tonight.”

Stiles does what has been asked of him, trying to feel as though he’s acting of his own volition, and not taking orders. They spend the rest of the hour slowly unpacking, sharing the space with a tight silence that seems full of something. Stiles spend the entire time on the cusp of saying something. The quiet and proximity forces him to on the day’s events, and especially those few kisses shared in those public spaces. The performance is strange...it makes him wonder what it might be like to do it in private. Would Hale use more force if he was being himself? Would his tongue be like a livewire in his mouth instead of a gentle push? Or would he be all hard, pressing, pushing, and blunt against Stiles’ lips?

It’s pointless to wonder, but it doesn’t stop Stiles’ sleep addled brain from imagining it a thousand different ways while they toss in their respective bedding. In the silence, he hears nothing but the distant laughter and music from beach parties down below, and the deep breaths emulating from Hale on the other side of the room.

It’s probably the most depressing wedding night he’s ever witnessed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/triggers at the end.

Tokyo at night plays tricks on his eyes. The dark SUV curves around the clutter of traffic and people on the streets, its windows tinted, doors locked, completely anonymous, but the tint does little to dim the endless flashing of lights from the billboards and television screens. It fills the car with strange neon glares and gradients. Stiles has to close his eyes until they finally turn down a darker, more secluded street, and then he’s forced to look at Agent Deaton’s face where he’s sitting across from him.

“Agent Stilinski,” Deaton says.

Stiles doesn’t answer right away. He just wants to sit in silence for a while. If he doesn’t have to speak, he doesn’t have to think about what he could possibly say. What would Stiles Stilinski say to his boss in this situation? It’s been so long since he’s relied on his own natural instincts, his own personality, even. He doesn’t know where to begin so it’s better not to speak. It’s going to take a while for him to figure out how to act again.

“There’s a late 3 AM flight leaving tonight-- your passport and boarding pass will be waiting for you at the safe house. Leave your clothes and paperwork behind. Leave the weapon.”

Stiles listens and understands the words as orders. Deaton is the perfect image of serenity, with just the barest hint of authority behind his demeanor. Stiles gets why they assigned him to the recon and not another, more intimidating superior. He understands this is meant to be the Agency’s idea of a sensitive, gentle touch. Given the situation, he should appreciate that gesture and Alan’s smooth, non-judgemental tone, but what Stiles really wants is to be punished. He would much rather appreciate it if Deaton would drop this facade and get on with the repercussions. The mission was a colossal fuck up and everyone knows it.

“You’ll have to clean yourself up. Disinfect.”

Stiles takes a moment to glance down at his hands. He smells overwhelmingly of smoke and gunpowder. That, at least, covers the scent of blood, which is hours old by now so the red has faded to a deeper color on his shirt, his hands stained almost brown.

“Prepare for a thorough debriefing when you’re back in Washington, Agent Stilinski. You may be subject to temporary suspension. But know that there is...an understanding...among the upper levels that your hands were tied.” Deaton leans forward on this. “Personally, I feel the incident boils down to a more inherent, administrative issue.”

“An administrative issue?” He can’t help but question this because it sounds so strangely bureaucratic. After all these months undercover, he’s forgotten that there’s still people above him pulling strings, filing paperwork, making calls, and that’s supposed to amount to half the mission’s work. Still, calling the mission failure an administrative issue sounds like an absurd reduction of the past nine months-- the bloodshed, the lying, the secrets.

“I believe there was an error in the initial outcome predictions for this operation, Agent Stilinski. The intel was inadequate... and with no offence to you or your partner, penetrating an organization such as the Nogitsune remains to be a near impossible feat.”

Stiles hears what he’s saying. They were unprepared, too fresh, too eager to blow the Nogitsune open, too hungry for secrets, to naive to think they’d won organization’s trust so easily. That was a fool’s mistake, a rookie’s mistake. Still, he remembers the confidence they’d donned going under nine months ago with their crisp, infallible covers, their arsenal of intelligence.

“We had solid covers...a solid entry into their meetings...and their councils,” he says, thinking of Heather’s smile as she strapped a gun to the holster of her thigh outside Narita International when they’d landed in the city.  

“With all due respect, Agent,” Deaton says, treading lightly. “Evidently, you did not.”

Stiles looks down at his hands again, at Heather’s blood caked into every crease and under his nails. He has the sudden urge to scrub them clean. He almosts asks Deaton if he’s in possession of some alcohol, not to drink, just to pour over his hands, or maybe his entire body. Maybe he could dip himself in ether and just scour away the last nine months, burn himself clean.

“While the death of your partner was...unfortunate, it was not entirely in vain. Thanks to you, we now know that the Nogitsune are in the pockets of Nemeton Corp. That’s invaluable intelligence, surely.”

“Invaluable intelligence? So Heather’s life was expendable, right?” he bites, looking up. Does he even have the right to be offended? He’s the reason why Heather is dead, why she’s not smiling through the damage control with him in this SUV.

Deaton’s face is sad and serious, eyes warm, but also condescending. “Don’t lose sight of the bigger picture, Agent. This is National security. Your partner knew what she signed up for when she joined us, and quite frankly, so should you.”

Another show of lights passes through the car like trickery.

When Stiles looks down at his hands again, there’s a gun weighing one of them down that wasn’t there before. It’s a revolver, like the one he killed Heather with. Involuntarily, he feels his arm lift up and the end point directly at Deaton, right between the eyes, the same way he’d pointed a gun at Heather’s head before he took the shot (before they made him take the shot).  No crime boss is whispering in his ear this time, though. There’s no reason to kill Deaton. But then it’s no longer Deaton sitting there, with his thinly veiled threats and criticism.

It’s Agent Hale. He feels his finger twitch on the trigger.

“The fake ones looked the exact same and cost an eighth of the price,” he says to Stiles. It’s an echo sound, a conversation about flowers that was a lie, but here in the car, it seems real. Stiles wants to scream. The garish Tokyo lights strobe around them, flashing from blue to red, light to dark. It’s unnatural-- almost supernatural. He has no control.

Stiles will pull the trigger. He feels it happening in slow motion, inevitable, unstoppable, no matter how much every cell in his body screams against it. Another partner dead at his hands, another cover blown to bits. It feels so wrong to do it,  but he’s halfway there. He’s halfway to killing him when Hale’s voice echoes again,

“Love you, too.”

And he pulls the trigger--

 

***

  
  


Stiles wakes to a snap just an inch above his face. There’s a foreign pair of fingers hovering there and it takes his heart a few seconds to catch up to his breath. He gasps a little, surprised and mildly horrified from having been ripped out of such a deep sleep and such a vivid dream. He shuts his eyes again and feels a weight shift on the bed beside him. Sitting up slowly, he rubs the sleep from his eyes to take in the morning and the interior of his new lavish undercover hovel. The curtains have been thrown open so that light permeates everything in the room, including Hale’s face from where he perches on the edge of the bed near Stiles’ feet, staring at him with dark eyes.

For a second, Stiles thinks he’s angry, but then he says, “You were having a nightmare,” and Stiles is sure that there is a layer of concern embedded in there somewhere.

“Sorry,” he says, swinging his legs around the edge of the bed. It’s light out, and Hale looks like he’s wide awake, so he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.

Hale looks away, a little awkward, a little tense. After a few moments that Stiles spends running his hand through his hair, Hale finally speaks again. “Bad missions always leave a mark, one way or another. You’re lucky it’s only in your sleep.”

“It was a long time ago,” Stiles says. “I’m over it.”

Hale snorts.

Stiles was probably talking in his sleep, revealing himself, saying Heather’s name, maybe. It’s a dangerous game for his subconscious to play when he’s this deep under. Judging by the look on his face, Hale knows exactly what Stiles was dreaming about and exactly what went down in Tokyo those years ago, and because he’s Stiles’ superior, he probably knows the intimate details of what Stiles did and just how severely the Nogitsune mission failed at his hands. His eyebrows fold just a fraction of an inch, almost betraying real concern and real human emotion, but as soon as he does it, his robotic attitude snaps back into place and he’s sitting up from the bed.

“Don’t let it distract you,” he says, voice hard again. “We have work to do.”

_Good morning, sunshine_ , Stiles thinks.

 

***

 

_Work_ is a relative term, really. Work consists of throwing on some expensive looking swimming trunks that are really more like booty shorts and heading down to the beach to drink mai tais while they casually watch Kate Argent’s every move.

Hale wears much of the same style of bathing suit as Stiles and since they’re playing husbands, Stiles doesn’t even have to pretend that he’s not ogling the man every time he moves one of his, frankly, bulging muscles. Hale is what you would call a brute force. He’s not hulking or overly tall, but looks solid and heavy, like if you dropped him in water, he would sink like a stone and look beautiful doing it. In the sun, Stiles lets himself appreciate how the light makes the hair on his body shine. He’s covered in it, dark hair that thickens in the right places, like a map to all of Hale’s most private and sensitive spots. It’s a wonder to stare at after years of seeing the same ashy grey suit on that body. Stiles could never grow body hair that didn’t turn out patchy. He’s smoother than Hale and they look like a perfect contrast out here with their bodies exposed. Where Hale’s skin is unblemished and tanned, Stiles is pale as a ghost and bespeckled with moles in seemingly random places.

While they lie in their respective tanning chairs, Stiles idly reaches out to card his fingers through Hale’s chest hair. It’s supposed to be for show, just a casual intimate gesture that well worn lovers might do, but when Hale grumbles for it, deep in his chest, Stiles finds himself suppressing a fiery surge of excitement that makes his groin ache.

He focuses instead on the sudden sighting of Argent, to his right as she drops a large tote in the sand and removes her beach cover, bearing her back to Stiles as if she has a target painted there.

Turning his head to look at Hale, he moves his fingers down his equally hairy arm to tangle loosely in his fingers hanging off the side of the armrest.

“She’s at 3 o’clock.” he says under his breath. Hale doesn’t turn his head right away. He waits a minute and then feigns that he’s looking in the beach bag they brought full of sunblock and tanning oil. As he pretends to dig around, Stiles continues, “It’s too early to excuse drunken camaraderie. We don’t want to look too eager. I say we wait for a restaurant date until we make the first move.”

“That could take days...to catch her in the right place and time.” He says it under his breath so that Stiles has to focus to hear. “We have a timeline. The priority is bugging her room as soon as possible”

It’s a matter of risk and reward. Hypothetically, Argent could decide to up and leave the resort at any time during the week, which would leave Stiles fucked and the Agency high and dry. They’re meant to find out who she’s trading with, what the weapons are for, and why this deal is happening now, all of the sudden. They have a small window to extract that information, which includes bugging her room imperceptibly. On the other hand, if they come at this too strong, they might be taken out in their sleep.

Still, this mission requires finesse. Stiles has made it a habit to eliminate mistakes from every one of his operations since Tokyo. This won’t be another a fuck up.

“Can you just do me one favour?” he asks, sliding the sunglasses back up his nose.

“What’s that?”

“Can you trust me on this?”

A long moment passes in which a family of vacationers walks by, kids screaming and running for the coast as a new wave crashes. He senses it when Hale’s body relaxes into the tanning chair again.

“Fine.”

 

***

 

As the masseuse’s  hands work the knots out of his shoulders, Stiles allows himself a moment of thanksgiving-- the perks of his job really aren’t so bad.  It’s early afternoon now, but they’ve blocked out all the sun in the room with thick bamboo blinds. Instead, everything is dim with scented candles burning all around him, flickering and giving the illusion of twilight. Stiles sighs and relaxes further into the massage bed, pressing his face into the donut hole thing and breathing in deeply. Some generic sounds of the forest shit is playing over the PA system, but Stiles indulges in it.

When the masseuse is finished, she leaves Stiles to relax for a few minutes and wind down from the endorphins. He feels boneless and sated, like muscles he didn’t even know he had have uncoiled after five years of tension.

That tension snaps back into place immediately as one of the curtains separating the other massage patrons opens with a violent swish.

Kate Argent, of course, is on the other side.

“Oh, sorry honey. I thought I was all alone.” She’s completely naked, just standing there with a damp towel in her hand. Her skin glistens with a slight sheen of oil and Stiles immediately averts his eyes. “I was looking for some extra towels. You have any in there?”

Stiles is careful to keep himself covered as he worms his way into a sitting position. He looks around the room that’s walled with curtains separating the other guests. “Doesn’t look like it, sorry.”

Kate snorts and sits back down on her own massage table, crossing her legs to hide her junk, but doing nothing to conceal her bare breasts. As strange as the situation may be, Stiles has to admire her gall.

“I guess it doesn’t matter if you’re at five-star resort or a $50 motel room-- they’re always going to be stingy on the towels.”

He laughs along with her and it requires no effort to appear awkward and flustered. He finds that it’s difficult to look away from her when she’s all flesh and defiance. It’s powerful, how she’s the one without clothing or barriers, yet he’s the one who feels exposed. He touches the back of his neck nervously, glad for an excuse to look a little tense. Once again, she’s taken him by surprise with her sudden appearances. He wants to pounce on this opportunity to force himself into her good graces, but he has to be more insidious, and without Hale here, he has to be more pragmatic. He has to do the expected thing.

“I can get the attendant if you need a robe,” he says, but she shrugs and her breasts sway with the movement.

“It’s no bother to me. I mean, you don’t exactly swing this way. I’ve got nothing to worry about, now have I?”

Stiles flashes a fake smile in her direction, a little annoyed by how she assumes that his sexuality could be so black and white, but this isn’t the time or place to hash out the cultural issues around bisexual erasure

“Speaking of,” she continues, “Shouldn’t you be doing a couple’s massage? Where is that _delicious_ hubby of yours?

“He was sunburned pretty badly today. Don’t think he’s up for any hands on his back unless it’s me rubbing aloe on it.” It’s a half lie. Hale had been sunburned, flustered and noncommittal when Stiles teased him about the redness of his cheeks earlier. Officially, he opted out of the couple’s massage to do some “work” on the encrypted laptop they keep in their room. He’s still trying to follow the digital and paper trails that might reveal more about Argent’s plans, but Stiles thinks it’s hopeless. He’s been working with Agent Mahealani for two years on that particular project and Argent had scoured any trace of correspondence and footprints from the internet. They’re only going to get that intel directly from the source.

“Aw, isn’t that a shame? You’re supposed to be leaving scratches up and down that back tonight, I bet.“

“Well at least,” Stiles says, deciding to play along, “his ass isn’t sunburned.”

She cackles at this, throwing her head back. “Oh, sweetie, there’s _no way_ you’re a top.”

Stiles wants to roll his eyes, but he just has to play along, play her games. She’s uncomfortably forward, suggestive and enticing. Stiles gets the feeling like she’s teetering on the precipice of suggestion, holding some kind of sexual double edged sword above his head. “What can I say? I’m a big giver.”

“I think you’d have to prove that for me to believe it. A pretty face like yours?” She tsks.

Stiles smirks at her. “We did make a sex tape in college.”

“Now, that’s porn I’d actually pay to see.” She tosses her hair behind her shoulder, revealing her breasts again. “You two are...an attractive couple,” she adds. Then she leans across the space with her hand outstretched. She gives him her fake name. He does the same. Her fingers are damp with oils and sweat, but not in an off-putting way. She’s the most volatile thing he’s encountered since his run in with a rattlesnake in the deserts of Nevada last year. And somehow, she’s even worse than that. At least Stiles knew what kind of venom that thing spat. Here, he’s totally blind to her whims.

“I like you,” she says, eyeing him up. “Let’s have dinner tonight. You can bring your boy. I think I just _have_ to get to know you two better.”  

He registers how it’s more of a command than a proposition. Standing up and reaching for his robe, he does what comes naturally in the theatre of this interaction. He drops the towel, showing her his ass as he switches it out for the silky robe. When he turns around, he agrees, smiling.

“We’ll meet you at eight?”

“It’s a date, handsome.”

She winks as he leaves the room.

 

***

 

“That was not the protocol.”

He can’t believe this. Hale looks furious, like his jaw is about to crack from how hard he’s gritting his teeth.

“Jesus-- protocol? Wake the fuck up, dude--- there is no protocol here.”

“You said it yourself this morning. We were waiting to make the first move until we spotted her _together_. In a public setting.”

Stiles moves around Hale, rolling his eyes. They have to pick some kind of dapper outfits to wear to dinner, something that will solidify themselves as the kind of characters Kate really wants to associate with. He thinks an ashy suit would be fitting for Hale right about now-- he looks a little ridiculous trying to convey authority while shirtless, sunburned, and wearing board shorts.

“I’m telling you,” he says, trying to sound more calm so he can get Hale on board with their dinner plans. “We ran into each other. It was as natural as it could ever be. We talked, she flashed me a few times, and now we’re having dinner.”

“I need you to brief me on everything you said. And everything she said.”

He’s not too eager to regurgitate the tense conversation that passed between them, but he senses that Hale is big on details.

“Honestly? We mostly talked about our sex life,” he says, gesturing between himself and Hale.

Hale’s eyes widen just a fraction, but he reels it in too quickly to name it anything.

“The meeting was unexpected, I’ll give you that, but I get what she’s playing at now. Socially,” Stiles continues.

“Socially?”

“Yeah. She wants to fuck us. Or break up our marriage. Or turn me straight. One of those.”

“And we are going along with this? You’re not serious.”

“As a heart attack, bro. She was all flirtation and none of it was anything you could call innocent. This is golden.”

“I don’t like it.”

Stiles stops digging through the dresser drawer and turns around to face Hale. He crosses his arms and leans against the furniture and he swears that Hale is trying to make himself taller.

“This is the core of this mission, alright? It’s improv. Half of it is chance...being in the right place at the right time. If we stalk her? If we try to draw her out too quickly? We lose her. Like it or not, everything is in her hands. She’s not looking for tennis partners out here. She wants to fuck shit up. So we have to play dead, alright? We have to be what she wants us to be. She can’t think we have an ounce of power over her or it’s going to give us away. That’s who we’re dealing with and that’s our in, so play the pawn, play innocent, make her think she’s got us in the palm of her hand. It’s all theatrics! Put on some goddamn cologne and lets get this show on the fucking road already. ”

“So if she attempts to unravel the marriage, you don’t think that will unravel the cover? Have you put any thought into the outcome at all?”

“Of course I have.” Stiles unfurls his arms to let them rest on his hips instead.

“There’s a difference between playing the pawn and actually being a pawn.” Hale retorts. “How can we successfully intercept anything she’s planning if we rely on circumstance alone? And if it falls through, how are we supposed to maintain normalcy in our covers if she’s part of some...dramatic honeymoon affair? You’ve put us in weak position. It’s sloppy. It’s unprepared.”

“Oh my god could you be any more unadaptable? _Get_ prepared.” 

Hale, who has been looking out at the balcony like the beach has personally offended him, jerks his head back to stare directly into Stiles’ eyes. He comes forward fast, right into Stiles’ space, suddenly all predatory.

“You don’t give orders, Stiles.”

Stiles has never heard him say his name and it sends an odd shock through his system. He steps right back into his space, matching his stance. “I don’t take them either, Derek.” Using his first name feels alien on Stiles’ tongue. In their line of work, the title is everything. It’s flippant to throw around an agent’s first name unless you’re extremely close with them, which is a very rare occurrence, but Stiles figures that if they’re playing name games, he needs to make the ground even.

Stiles actually does hear the joints in Hale’s jaw crack with pressure as Hale pauses. He takes the opportunity to glance at the clock. It’s already 7:30, close to their meeting and there’s no way they can bring this tension in with them. He has to diffuse the situation.

“Look, I know it didn’t-- I know that going off the books makes you nervous, but trust me, sometimes it doesn’t matter how much intel and prep you have, you’re going to have a gun to your head either way.”

Hale’s face softens, his brows knitting and mouth parting a little. He still stands so close that Stiles can still feel his breath on his face.

“Then let me make it clear,” he says, backing away. “I’m willing to go along with the circumstances you’ve put us in, but if I sense that we’re sacrificing the cover, I will do something about it.”

“Okay.”

And that’s that. He’s actually surprised at how quickly they could come to a negotiation. Hale is kind of a brick wall.

He wishes he could express how he feels about this plan, how certain he is. Sure, it’s risky and it could go a million different ways, but there’s a gut feeling buried in him that he can’t ignore. This is the right move. They have to let Kate dangle them on a string. It’s how they get her alone. They’d planned to get in with Kate through friendly chats and drunken heart-to-hearts around seduced bonfires, but that’s not how this is going to play out and Stiles knows that now. Maybe she brings them up to her room and they can bug the place...maybe they bring her to their room and take her out with the tranq gun.

He doesn't know why Hale is so reluctant to follow this lead. For the next few minutes, they go about their business in silence.

Then, like an olive branch, Stiles gets the bottle of aloe and corners Hale while he’s sitting on the bed, going through his phone.

“Come on, you’re a lobster.”

Hale looks up at Stiles like he’s crazy. He’s still livid, clearly, but Stiles is nothing but determined.

“I’m fine,” he says definitely.

“Just lie your ass down, Hale, it will feel better.”

Hale raises his eyebrows at him and they’re nearly touching his forehead. “I thought I told you not to give orders.” It could be serious, but while Stiles is holding a bottle of green gel, it’s riddled with dark humor. He feels a bit of the tension in the room bleed.

“If you want to suffer in silence, be my guest.” Stiles raises his hands in surrender. As he moves to turn away, though, Hale heaves a sigh of defeat and slowly maneuvers himself face down on the bed, arms pillowing his head so he can hide his face in shame, obviously. It feels a bit like the brick wall is crumbling more.

As Stiles kneels on the bed, he’s struck with the urge to place his knees on either side of Hale’s ass. It would be so easy to press himself against him, to fuck in slow circles through all those layers of clothes as Hale writhes against the mattress for friction. He takes a seat next to Hale’s ass instead and tries to force away the onslaught of filthy images that the proximity brings forward. It’s safe to say, he thinks, that Stiles is attracted to Hale and there’s really no going back from that. As he squeezes some gel onto his hand, he imagines that it’s lube. He would have Hale laid out just like this, hiding his face and waiting in nervousness for Stiles to reach out and touch him, draw his fingers down to his hole, circle him lazily and slowly until he’s fully hard and--

He stops that train of thought and just goes for Hale’s back before he cock chubs up too much to hide. Softly, he touches the hot skin of his shoulders and slides the aloe gently toward his center, where Hale’s back makes a perfect line.

“Be quick about it,” Hale says suddenly.

“You’re the one who deep fried yourself in the Mayan sun.”

“I’m keeping up the appearance of the American vacationer.”

Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “Right. Blending in by the books. Totally intentional.”

The last of the tension seeps out of the room as Stiles finishes applying aloe to the broad expanse of red skin on Hale’s shoulders. Hale removes himself from the bed in a swift, mechanical movement and avoids Stiles’ eye contact at all costs after that. He’s the most defensive asshole Stiles has ever laid eyes on, but he thinks there’s a slight cease fire here. Stiles can’t afford there not to be. They’re about to embark on the toughest part of the operation and he needs a partner that will be on the same page.

Later, as they walk toward the elevators to join their mark for the world’s most anticipated date, Hale is the one to slip his hand into Stiles’. There are others in the lift with them as they descend. Stiles whispers some inane chatter in Hale’s ear about seafood and then he kisses him softly on the jaw, where his stubble still makes his lips sensitive. He smells like aloe vera.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gun violence, allusions to PTSD. Kate is a bad person and engages in some bi erasure and heteronormative assumptions. Stiles also pressures Derek into engaging in some potential sexual activity that he's reluctant to participate in.


End file.
